


O Death, where is thy sting?

by Variative



Series: Pound of Dirt 'Verse [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-05 19:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Variative/pseuds/Variative
Summary: Kyr shushed him. “Don’t talk,” he said quaveringly. “Save your strength.”Kelly would have laughed if he could have.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ActualWritesThings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualWritesThings/gifts).



> Kyr belongs to CJ, who asked for "don’t talk. save your strength," for Kyr and Kelly or Carver

It was only cold now, the wracking pain gone. It was so  _cold_. Was it always this cold?

Distantly, there was the sound of blasterfire, of screaming. The droids had moved on from here, deeper into the base. Reinforcements would come—they would, they had to. Injured men—the ones who could stand and fight had taken up arms. There was nothing to be done for the rest of them. Kelly had done what he could… he had tried… he was only bleeding out, now.

“Kelly,” someone cried. There was the sound of them scrambling close, kneeling at his side, saying urgently, “Kelly,  _Kelly—"_

He dragged open his eyes, reluctantly. 

“Kyr,” he said raggedly, barely more than a sigh. He looked over the little gunner—and Kelly was sorry that he could think of Kyr like that, and sorry that he would never be able to think of Kyr as anything else, would never see him filled out in his body, never see the shadows under his eyes recede. Kyr looked alright. There was a singed burn on his cheek, blood soaked into his sleeve, but he looked alright. Better than Kelly, ha ha ha. He was sorry that he hadn’t been able to help Kyr, but at least now that failure would never haunt him. But he wished _…_  he had to—he had to tell Kyr— 

“I’m sorry,” Kelly rasped. Kyr’s hands were hovering anxiously over the mess Kelly had made of his lower body, and Kelly took one of them in the hand he could still move. “Look at me,” Kelly told Kyr, and swallowed back bile.  _Don’t look at that. It just hurts. Don’t look at the things that hurt, not when there’s no help for them._

Kyr met Kelly’s eyes; his were wide and wet, his jaw tight, all pale with tension, and Kelly squeezed his hand. There was nothing to be done.

“I’m sorry,” Kelly said again. There was blood in his mouth.

Kyr shushed him. “Don’t talk,” he said quaveringly. “Save your strength.”

Kelly would have laughed if he could have. He swallowed with difficulty and said, “It’s okay.” It hurt to speak, it hurt to breathe. It was okay, though, and he squeezed Kyr’s hand. It was okay. There was nothing to be done now, and he hadn’t been able to help Kyr and it was okay that now Kyr could do nothing for Kelly, and he wanted to tell Kyr that, but it was too late, he was already too far gone, he knew it. He couldn’t feel Kyr’s hand in his.

The pain was buzzing at the edge of his awareness, and the cold was rising up behind his eyes. His vision narrowed and greyed. Where was he—? He couldn’t see. He couldn’t— 

“Carver?” Kelly didn’t know if he said it out loud. He tried again, reaching out, searching blindly for the warmth of Carver’s body,  _Carver, Carver, are you there? Are you…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was harder work to gather the few survivors and the dead than it had been to drive off the droids.

In the end reinforcements did come, but there were still so many bodies that had to be transferred up to the ship in orbit, so many men who had died out of armor, unarmed. Carver had seen one man, a snarl frozen on his face and a gaping hole blown in his ribcage, an I.V. stand in his fists all he’d had to defend himself with.

He was so angry he was numb with it. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to rip apart the world they stood on, he wanted to gouge out the eyes of Count Dooku himself, he wanted to take his _time_ finding out if droids could feel pain, starting with every last commando droid that had ambushed and razed a medical base.

It was harder work to gather the few survivors and the dead than it had been to drive off the droids. Carver’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

He worked to the last possible minute because it was all he could do to keep down the horror. He saw the wounded sent up on larties, and then the body bags. He stayed along with a handful of others with the salvage crew, doing numbly whatever the leader directed him towards. Carver was sitting staring blankly at the handful of half-melted bacta packs in his lap, the loudest noise he could hear the sound of his own pulse, and one of the men grabbed his shoulder, jolting him out of it.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ve done everything we can.”

Carver nodded and stood up, trailed the trooper back to the larty and held on as it climbed into the atmosphere. He was glad for his bucket; he didn’t want to know what kind of expression he had on his face and he didn’t want anyone else seeing it. He felt like a battle-shocked shiny again, he felt the confusion and fear and hatred of waking up in a dim cell with a fire set in the left side of his face and seeing a gaunt female Umbaran leaning against the bars on the other side, smiling at him. He felt like _hell._

The mess was quiet. They hadn’t lost so many men to make a noticeable difference, but everyone felt it anyway, and no one was really talking. Carver got his food and sat alone in a corner to eat. He didn’t want to, just the smell made him faintly sick, but he knew better. He ate until his mouth watered with nausea, and then he scrapped the rest and left that too-quiet hall.

“Carver!”

Just as he was almost to the door. He’d paused and half turned toward the direction of the call on instinct, so there was no pretending he hadn’t heard it. Carver sighed and scanned the mass of faces, looking for whoever had said his name.

“ _Carver_ ,” and he turned a little more and saw Kyr. He looked worse for wear than usual.

“Hey, kid,” Carver said as Kyr drew near. He couldn’t force himself to muster any false cheer, but he was glad to see that Kyr was more-or-less alright, and he smiled a little. That smile faded fast though, as Kyr got close enough to see that his eyes were red and puffy, and his hands wrung anxiously at the hem of his shirt.

“I—I’m sorry,” Kyr croaked, and swallowed hard, his expression determinedly set.

“Why?” Carver’s pulse crashed in his ears.

“I don’t know if you heard,” Kyr said softly. “But I thought I should be the one—”

“ _What,_ ” Carver hissed, stepping close to Kyr, and he shrank back slightly even though the younger clone still towered over Carver by half a foot.

“Kelly is dead,” Kyr blurted out. His voice was thick with unshed tears. It took Carver a moment to understand the words.

“No,” he said. “You’re lying to me.” There was no other explanation. Kyr was lying.

“I’m not, Carver, I’m not, I’m sorry—” Kyr was crying openly now and Carver didn’t care. He turned and walked away.

“Carver—”

He whirled on Kyr and seized him by the collar and shook him, snarling, “You’re _lying to me!_ ”

Kyr shook his head frantically. “I’m not,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Carver, I tried—but it was too late, I found him and he was—there was so much blood and he told me—and I didn’t know what to do, I tried to help him, I tried, but—”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Carver said, hard and cold, and he let go of Kyr and this time when he walked out nobody tried to stop him.

He went to Kelly’s quarters. It was instinct; Carver couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the ARC barracks.

That wasn’t true. It had been the third night, after he returned from ARC training, and he’d woken up screaming for the third night in a row. No one had wanted him there, and he couldn’t blame them, so he went looking for somewhere unobtrusive to spend the rest of the night cycle. He’d gone to the medbay in the end, the same room he’d woken up in, and curled up on the bed. Maybe it should have brought back bad memories, but the bad memories were always there, or not the memories but the feelings—the fear, the horror and pain—and he couldn’t remember feeling safe before waking up in the medbay. Sometimes it came to him in flashes, though. An old life, a life _before_.

Anyway. Kelly had found him there in the morning, and from then on he’d slept on a cot in Kelly’s office, and after a week or so he just slept curled up with Kelly on his bunk, and neither one of them minded too much when the other screamed himself awake.

Carver thought that he wouldn’t be able to make himself go in, but it was easy. The door code hadn’t changed, after all. And more often than not, Kelly was working when Carver turned in. The emptiness wasn’t strange at all.

It seemed colder, but that was Carver’s imagination playing tricks on him.

He took off his armor mechanically, stacking it neatly in the corner and taking a pair of clean underwear and an undershirt out of his duffel. He showered, and after that he did throw up, his whole body ringing with tension, shadows in the corners of his eyes becoming monsters. He trembled over the sink, dripping.

“Kelly,” he croaked, limping back into the main room. He had to lean against the wall to stay upright. _Please. Please come back, Kelly, oh please come back soon I need you I need you—_

Had he been in pain? Had he been attacked—his sweet brave medic, it ripped a hole in Carver’s chest thinking about Kelly up against the commando droids, just trying to slow them down—had he prayed for someone, anyone, as they got closer and closer, when did he realize that no one was going to come, that no one was going to save him, did he realize that he was going to—

“ _No!_ ” Carver cried out, and slammed his fist into the wall again and again and again and sank to the ground staring and numb, the pain far away.

Eventually he got up, and dragged himself to bed. He lay down, hollow and ringing, and stared blankly at the wall until the day cycle came on, the lights changing, and he dragged open his gritty eyes and sat up.

His knuckles were all ripped up. There was blood smeared on the wall.

 _Better clean that up,_ he thought, _or Kelly will kill me_ right on its heels.

Carver swallowed hard and got up and taped up his hand, and then he cleaned the damn blood off the damn wall.

* * *

 

Three weeks until they made landfall on their next deployment. He wasted one of them not thinking. He worked out and he ate and he slept and he got drunk on Kelly’s private stash because he would be furious at Carver for it when he came back and found Carver halfway through the bottle of his favorite Corellian whiskey. It felt good, mostly. He wished they had shore leave, he could have used four solid hours of savage fucking to clean out his head.

On the second week he dragged himself off drunkenly to go find Kyr, when they briefly docked to refuel, but he didn’t find Kyr. Instead, Ash found him.

Carver glared. Ash’s face was very close to his and he didn’t appreciate it. He also did not appreciate Ash’s fists wound in his collar, or that Ash had slammed him up against the wall, pinning him.

“Psycho boyfriend,” Carver slurred, exhaling the heavy whiskey reek of his breath in Ash’s face. He loved being drunk enough that Ash didn’t scare him. “What do _you_ want?”

Ash growled and shook him. “You fucked up Kyr,” he snarled. “He’s been a wreck ever since that thrice-cursed op and neither me or Toast can get a damn thing out of him except three people told me they saw you yelling at him in the mess, so _out with it!_ ”

Carver laughed, his head lolling back, and then he dragged himself up and looked Ash in the eye. “Kelly’s dead,” he mumbled. He hadn’t said it out loud before that moment. He said it again, “Kelly’s _dead!_ ” and the words were hollow, empty. He could say them a hundred times, a thousand, “Kelly’s dead _,_ Kelly’s _dead,_ Kelly’s _dead,_ _Kelly’s dead,_ _Kelly’s DEAD—!”_

“You’re fucked in the head,” Ash cut him off, words low with shock or disgust Carver was too wasted to tell or care.

“‘M not saying ‘s his fault,” Carver said, and hiccuped. “He _tried,_ Ash, I know he did, I know he did. He’s a good kid.” He sniffled and tried to reach past Ash’s arms to wipe his eyes, but he couldn’t work out how to get around them to his face, and he gave up and dropped his hands. He let his head fall back against the wall, tears trickling into his hair. “Kelly’s _dead,_ ” Carver said again, and his voice broke on a sob. “You say any damn thing about him and I’ll kill you,” he added, with an effort.

Ash snorted softly. “Right.”

But he let Carver go, and didn’t say anything more. Carver’s legs folded out from under him, and he slid down against the wall and sank into a puddle at the base, and Ash left him alone after that, and eventually Carver dragged himself back to the barracks, if only because he was creeping dangerously close to sober.

* * *

 

“I’m worried about you,” Kyr said.

“Th’ _hell?”_ Carver propped himself up on an elbow and then regretted that decision. It felt like there were mortars going off in his head.

Kyr just pressed a glass of water into his hand. He downed it clumsily, spilling half of it over his bare chest. He waved it at Kyr until he took it away and then pulled at a fistful of the sheets, trying to wipe off his chest, and he couldn’t figure out that the sheets wouldn’t cooperate because he was lying on them, so he gave up and dropped back down, curling onto his side away from Kyr and the horrible brightness of the room.

“Carver,” Kyr said, quiet but firm in just the way that drove knives into Carver’s chest, and his gentle hand on Carver’s back twisted them deep.

“Go ’way,” Carver mumbled. He wanted to be alone.

“Carver,” Kyr said again, his voice wavering, and Carver sat up and gulped for breath, pressure behind his eyes and knives in his skull, his pulse pounding like a drum through his head. He glared at Kyr.

“What do you _want,_ ” Carver hissed.

Kyr’s mouth pursed and wobbled, and he looked down. “I just—I was worried about you. Ash said—”

“Oh, what did _Ash_ say about me,” Carver sneered, getting up off the bunk. He weaved around Kyr to the fresher, saying, “Did he say I was drunker than a—than—” Similes failed him. “Did he say I was wasted off my ass,” he spat instead, viciously, and leaned against the doorway to glare directly at Kyr. “Did he say I was miserable and pathetic and liable to die of drink there on the floor? Is that why you’re here, come running out of _pity?_ ”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Kyr snapped, and Carver arched a brow at him and Kyr said, “I wanted to _talk_ to you, chakaar. I wanted to—I wanted to make sure you were okay—”

“No,” Carver said. “I’m not. Go away.”

He turned away and stalked into the fresher and locked the damn door behind him.

Kyr pounded once on the door and shouted, “Don’t call my boyfriend a karking psycho!”

Carver closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath through his nose, and went to the sink and splashed water on his face. There was vomit in the toilet and he made a face and flushed it. He splashed water on his face again and then he went to the door and jerked it open.

“I don’t remember calling your boyfriend that,” Carver snapped at Kyr’s retreating back; he was half out the door. “It was just _psycho,_ I’m pretty sure.”

“Fuck you,” Kyr exclaimed, whirling back around, a hot flush in his cheeks, and Carver had to step hard on a small burst of satisfaction that unfolded in his chest, because it was always a relief to see a bit of color in Kyr.

“He did slam me up against a wall for no damn reason,” Carver said, snide and angry. “The evidence isn’t really in his corner.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a complete ass?” Kyr crossed his arms, scowling.

Carver shrugged and went over to the bunk, dragged his duffle out from underneath. His fingers didn’t so much as brush the rough canvas of Kelly’s, but awareness prickled over the back of his hand, like it was giving off an electric charge. He ignored it as hard as he possibly could. “Close the door,” he said to Kyr, standing up and peeling off his pants and underwear. He didn’t much care if Kyr stayed or left. “What happened to my shirt?”

“It had vomit on it,” Kyr said tiredly. He went and dropped into Kelly’s desk chair, and Carver turned and gave him a hard glare until the blood ran out of his face a little in understanding and he stood up hastily and sat on the bunk instead.

Carver pulled on clean underwear and a fresh set of clothes; he’d been wearing his fatigues, so it was down to civvies for now. He shook out a pair of worn sweatpants and put them on, dug out the rattiest, softest shirt he owned. “So you just decided to take care of it, or what?”

“You were looking pretty pathetic,” Kyr told him matter-of-factly, drawing his feet up underneath him like he was settling in to stay a while.

A sharp retort rose to Carver’s lips, but he found, abruptly, that he was too exhausted to let it out. Too hungover. He sank onto the bunk next to Kyr and rubbed his hands over his face, stubble rasping against his palms. “I know,” Carver said, soft, and Kyr put an arm around his shoulders and let him slump against his chest. “I wish I could forget him,” he croaked.

“You don’t mean that,” Kyr said.

“When’d you get so smart,” Carver mumbled.

Kyr pressed his lips to the top of Carver’s head, and he felt Kyr smile.

“Tell me what happened,” Carver said quietly; his throat was closing up and he could barely get the words out.

Kyr tensed under him, took a slow breath. His hand stroked soothingly over Carver’s back, and he said, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Carver rasped, tears already spilling down his cheeks. He slumped down into Kyr’s lap, pressing his face into Kyr’s thigh; he wanted it even though it gutted him, wanted to have this last piece of Kelly, all that was left of him. A sob broke from Carver, embarrassingly unrestrained, and he clung tighter to Kyr like a child as he fought to get his breathing under control.

Kyr was silent for a long time, minutes ticking by to the sound of Carver's pulse in his ears, Kyr's hand moving over his back, and then he felt Kyr shiver underneath him, crying too. He sniffed and murmured softly, “I can’t stop thinking about it. I—I never saw anyone cut up that bad—” his voice went wet and thin, and Carver’s grip on his tightened. It was almost like pain, the horrible emotion that was happening somewhere below his chest, but he pressed his face into Kyr’s thigh and made sure the scream welling in his throat didn’t make its way anywhere— “‘cept for me,” Kyr went on, laughing weakly, wet. “Didn’t even know where to start, I—I just—and he held my hand and he told me that it was okay and I–I–I just don’t _get_ it, he kept saying he was s–sorry—" Kyr's voice broke, and he went silent.

“He was just lying there,” Kyr went on softly, after a moment. “Seemed—pissed at me, almost, for disturbing him. Didn’t want me bothering him, trying to s–stop the bleeding.” His voice broke. He cleared it and went on, “He said your name, you know.”

“No,” Carver said.

“It was the last thing he said,” Kyr mumbled. “Your name. Th–think—think he saw you, or something. I don’t know. And then he just—he was…”

“ _No_ ,” Carver said again, and Kyr pulled him up and let him bury his face in Kyr’s neck, his arms wrapping tight around Kyr’s chest like he was all that kept Carver from sinking, and he sobbed and sobbed and gasped out, “ _No, no, no, no, no, no, no,_ ” over and over again because it was too much to bear and it always would be because Carver loved him, Carver  _loved him,_  and he had loved Carver, and Kelly was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ash and Kyr both belong to CJ <3


End file.
